


we're hollow (like the bottles that we drain)

by Idday



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M, Past Kent Parson/Jack Zimmermann
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-12 08:10:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7927231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idday/pseuds/Idday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the story of Kent’s life, Jack is the one who got away.</p><p>(Or: Kent collects little pieces of Jack, over the years.)</p><p>(Or: Kent’s always had a bad habit of pushing hard on his bruises the next day, just to feel how something can leave a ache long after it’s done hurting you. Maybe that’s why he’s at this wedding.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	we're hollow (like the bottles that we drain)

**Author's Note:**

> Pretty angsty Kent-centric work (as in Kent still loves Jack and nobody will tell me otherwise), but angsty with a happy ending. Canon-compliant, with mentions of Jack's OD and epikegster (both brief and non graphic). Endgame Jack/Bitty and Kent/Tater, but lots of dwelling on past Kent/Jack.
> 
> Just as a side note, here I headcanon Kent and Tater being rookies together on the Aces before Tater was traded to the Falconers.

Kent’s never met a player who doesn’t keep his important pucks.

 The one he scores his first NHL goal with, he sends to his mother. The three from his first hat trick he uses as paperweights. His Stanley Cup winning goal puck, 2010, he donates to be auctioned for charity.

The single puck Kent keeps from juniors isn’t from his first goal for the Oceanic.

It’s just the first he scored with off Jack’s assist.

…

In the story of Kent’s life, Jack is the boy he couldn’t save.

…

Kent collects little pieces of Jack, over the years.

He keeps them in a box marked ‘Grandma’s X-mas Ornaments,’ because his teammates are fucking nosy. That first puck; a brochure from an art museum in Montreal where they went on a high school field trip and made out in the empty Renaissance room and pissed off the tour guide by refusing to understand modern art; an empty pill bottle; a broken skate lace; the cork from a bottle of wine; a neatly folded Samwell jersey.

A dozen blank postcards, one for every road trip the two of them ever took.

A scratched up CD, marked in Jack’s hand: _from Kenny._

The newspaper clipping Kent had made Jack autograph when it was clear that he’d go first.

A note: _Hey Kenny, just ran out to get some coffee. Keep the bed warm : ) xx Jack_

A Rimouski ball cap, stained with sweat and illegally obtained champagne, that Kent had stolen off Jack’s head and worn backwards when he’d blown Jack that night to celebrate the Memorial Cup.

The shirt—Jack’s—Kent had been wearing when he found his boyfriend half-dead and saw his life change forever.

A crumpled red plastic cup from that night at Samwell.

…

In the story of Kent’s life, Jack is the one who got away.

…

The wedding invitation goes in the box, too, when it comes.

_Mr. and Mrs. Bittle are proud to announce the engagement of their son…_

…

In the story of Kent’s life, Eric Bittle is the other man.

…

Kent watches them exchange vows and thinks, _I have parts of him that you never will._

But Kent has the parts that mean he knows how to deal with Jack when he’s so high his irises disappear, what he looks like when he’s vomiting up his own stomach lining.

Eric has the parts where Jack’s saying _“I do”_ and pushing a ring onto his finger.

…

Kent often wishes that he could keep all of Jack’s kisses in the box with the other things—all the marks Jack had ever bit into Kent’s thighs, all the sighs of Kent’s name, every moment when Jack had begged for his touch.

If only to remind himself that it isn’t just in his fucking head, the way Jack had once wanted Kent, too.

Instead, he has one single picture of Jack kissing Kent’s cheek, drunk off their asses after a big win in Halifax. Jack’s face is obscured.

…

Kent walks through the reception line afterwards. He looks Jack in the eyes and tells him sincerely, “I hope you two are very happy together.”

His voice doesn’t even wobble.

Jack shakes his hand, and says, “Thanks, Kent.”

Eric frowns and looks at Jack, like he’s expecting Kent to make a scene.

But he won’t, not here, not if Zimms is happy.

So Eric hates him. This isn’t news to Kent, exactly. Even the last time, Kent hadn’t made a scene—he’d been behind closed doors when Jack had pulled his shirt out of his pants and said his name just like he used to. It’s not Kent’s fault Eric was just behind the door.

Kent smiles at him evenly.

Maybe Eric’s just mad that Jack invited his ex-lover to his wedding. It’s probably not what’s done, but Kent wouldn’t know—he’s not close enough to his other ex-lovers to attend their weddings.

Hell, he doesn’t even know most of their last names.

…

In the story of Kent’s life, Kent is the jilted lover.

…

Kent orders a whiskey from the open bar.

He says hello to the Zimmermanns, talks to Bob about the power play until Alicia sternly tells Bob that guests are waiting to speak to him. She kisses Kent on the cheek before she drags her husband away.

He makes small talk with the members of the Samwell team he remembers—Ransom and Holster and Lardo. He listens to Shitty talk for nearly twenty minutes about the misogynistic history behind most wedding traditions, and makes a mental note to tell his sister later.

It’s the sort of thing Jess would like.

He nods to a table of Falconers that he never sees off the ice, and then he sees Tater, and he smiles.

“Hey, man, good to see you,” he says, and it’s the first time all night he tells the truth.

…

Alexei Mashkov has parts of Kent that Jack never will.

Alexei knew a Kent that cried in his sleep over a boy three thousand miles away.

Alexei knew a Kent that was a rookie—lonely and scared and playing for the wrong team.

Alexei knew a Kent that won a fucking Stanley Cup, just because people said he couldn’t.

…

Kent returns to the bar for a whiskey for himself and a vodka for Alexei.

Jack steps up beside him and doesn’t order a thing.

“Nice wedding,” Kent says after an excruciating moment, because Jack won’t say a word.

“Thanks,” Jack says, and then, “We weren’t sure if you would actually come,” and Kent thinks, not for the first time tonight, _then why did you invite me at all?_

“I’m sorry,” Kent says, trying to sound neutral, cool, “I assumed the invitation meant you wanted me to come. If it was just a formality, I can leave. If you’d be more comfortable.” He wishes it didn’t sound like a question. He wishes he didn’t sound so hurt.

Jack looks at him for the first time. “Kenny,” he says softly.

(The last time Jack had called him that, he was drunk in Kent’s kitchen after a loss to the Aces in Vegas, and he was standing too close. “Kenny,” he’d said, and Kent knew if he took one step forward, Jack would lean down and kiss him, because he’d been there before.

Kent took a step back.

He herded Jack to the guest room, left him two Advil and a Gatorade and a glass of water and a note that said _call your boyfriend when you wake up, Zimms. He’s been texting you all night._

Sometimes, Kent thinks it was the most mature decision he’d ever made, not letting Jack use him that night, although Jack wanted him and he and Bitty were on a break and Kent _ached_ to be kissed by him just once more.

Sometimes, Kent thinks it was the worst decision he’s ever made, letting Jack walk away again.

It’s easier to break your own heart, it turns out, than the heart of the man you love. And Jack would have been broken, the next day, if Kent had let himself be loved.

“Sorry,” Jack had said the next morning, avoiding Kent’s eyes, and Kent had thought, _for wanting me at all, or for not wanting me enough?_

Kent’s always had a bad habit of pushing hard on his bruises the next day, just to feel how something can leave a ache long after it’s done hurting you. Maybe that’s why he’s at this wedding.)

“Kenny,” Jack says again. “You’re one of my oldest friends. Of course I wanted you here.”

Kent’s been any one of a million things to Jack over the years—liney, lover, disaster. The word friend has never been quite able to encompass that.

The DJ calls for the newly married couple to have their first dance.

Jack walks away.

…

There had been a point when Kent thought the worst thing that Jack could ever tell him was that he fell out of love with Kent—not that time, or distance, or even Jack’s overdose had torn them apart, just that Jack had one day decided that Kent was no longer worth caring for.

Then Jack told him that he had never loved Kent at all.

As it turned out, that was worse.

…

Sometimes, Kent wonders what fucking story Jack has been reading.

…

Alexei’s undone his tie and when Kent returns with the drinks, his eyes are wide and concerned.

“You are…” he says, and hesitates. “You are being okay?”

Kent can remember a time when Alexei barely spoke enough English to order coffee. When they had spent half their time living in each other’s pockets on the road, Kent would spend long nights telling him about every word Jack had ever spoken, every promise Jack had ever broken.

Alexei had spent just as many nights telling Kent elaborate stories in Russian while Kent had let his mind drift on the easy basis of their friendship—they hadn’t needed to speak the same language to understand each other, then.

Now, Alexei’s perfectly fluent, and the way he says, “I know it is hard for you, but I think it is nice that you come for Zimmboni,” makes Kent thinks he’s understood English for longer than he’d let on.

“I’m…” Kent says slowly, then shakes his head and takes a sip of whiskey instead of finishing his thought.  

Alexei slings an arm over his shoulder. “Come,” he says, “I have not shown you pictures of my puppy yet, no?”

…

They talk about their pets, about their siblings, about growing up in places where the ice was the only escape. They talk about the wedding guests and that lady’s atrocious handbag and about the LA Kings.

They don’t talk about Jack.

When the DJ starts playing the “party music,” as Alexei calls it, he insists that Kent dance with him.

Jack and Eric are waved off on their honeymoon, and Kent’s in the corner with Alexei, cheerfully debating the Canuck’s trade prospects.

When the party dies down, Alexei invites him up to the hotel room he’s gotten for the weekend to discuss the coming season, “Captain to captain.”

There’s something in his eyes that makes Kent think, _he wants me,_ and something in the cut of Alexei’s suit that makes Kent think, _I want him,_ and just enough whiskey in his system to make Kent say yes.

…

Kent hasn’t woken up in another man’s bed since he was eighteen and the other man was a boy who just yesterday married somebody else.

He’s wearing his undershirt and his boxers and has just enough of a hangover headache to be glad for the two pills neatly laid on the nightstand with a glass of water.

When Alexei emerges from the bathroom, he’s cheerfully dripping wet and has a towel wrapped around his waist.

“Morning,” Kent says, and sits up, and waits—they hadn’t had sex the night before, had actually just discussed hockey and then passed out in the same bed, but… in his experience, any night spent in another man’s room is liable to end with a _this was fun, but…_

“You want breakfast?” Alexei asks him, pulling on pants.

“What?” Kent says.

“We can order breakfast?” Alexei repeats, waving a room service menu, “Or we can go find place to eat?”

Something must show on Kent’s face, because Alexei approaches him, still half naked, looks intently into his face.

“We only talk last night,” he says slowly.

“I know,” Kent says, “I wasn’t that drunk. How about you, huh, you were throwing back that vodka like it was water.”

“I am Russian,” Alexei says, but he smiles, unoffended, and goes to pull on a T-shirt, slicking his wet hair back from his face.

“Breakfast,” he says again, and then comes to stand in front of Kent, still seated on the bed, and Alexei takes his chin between two warm fingers. “But maybe next time,” he says carefully, “Maybe next time we will not only talk?”

…

Under the table at a diner down the street, Kent threads an ankle between Alexei’s, lets himself be trapped there and smiles back.

“What are you doing this summer?” Kent asks him.

“Training,” Alexei says, “Visiting family in Russia. Besides that, I have some time. Maybe I will see friends in America. Who can say?”

Kent hums. “I could use some company this summer,” he says. “For training.”

“For training,” Alexei agrees, and grins.

…

Alexei has strong arms and thick legs and he doesn’t feel a thing like Jack when he’s pressed up close behind Kent on Kent’s own mattress back in Vegas, three weeks later.

…

“Alyosha,” Alexei says, “Is like… pet name, yes? You call me.”

“Alyosha,” Kent tries, but Alexei—Alyosha—only laughs, shakes his head. He pulls Kent’s wrist to him, places Kent’s fingers lightly on his lips.

“Alyosha,” he says slowly so that Kent can feel the way his mouth moves, but when he tries again, Alyosha only smiles, nips Kent’s fingertips.

“We will work on it, yes?”

“Alyosha,” Kent murmurs again, before he’s kissed silent.

…

“There is not same thing in English,” Alyosha says thoughtfully afterwards, Kent’s head cradled to his chest. He can feel Alyosha’s voice rumble beneath his cheek, and he squirms in closer, shudders at the warmth.

“Kenny,” he says softly, “You could call me that. That’s… that would be nice.”

“Kenny,” Alyosha says, and Kent likes the way it sounds on his tongue.

…

In the story of Kent’s life, Alyosha is the one he suddenly realized was there all along.

…

Jack used to speak French to him sometimes, but mostly because he was technically Kent’s tutor.

“Quebecois,” Jack would correct, pained, when Kent complained about not being raised bilingual.

But Kent’s never heard anything quite like the broken Russian that falls from Alyosha’s mouth when Kent gets his lips just _there_ on the spot behind his ear that makes him tremble.

…

 _Tater?_ Jack texts him. _Really Kent?_

Alyosha had posted a picture of the two of them dressed up for one of Kent’s charity galas last night. There’s enough plausible deniability—if only just—that Kent knows most people will assume it’s platonic. Jack knows him better.

(“Jack’s going to be upset,” Kent confesses after their first time, three days after Alyosha had called him from McCarran and asked Kent to come pick him up. They spent those days training, touristing, _dating._ Kent let Alyosha hold his hand when they were out in public and there weren’t too many people around and each night Alyosha let Kit curl up on his lap while Kent curled up under his arm. Alyosha had slept in his bed but only kissed him goodnight. Kent’s never had anyone want him for more than a night, before. He’s never been dated.

It’s nice to know he still has a few firsts left for someone else to claim.

He probably shouldn’t talk about his ex-lover in bed after Alyosha’s just finished kissing his way back up Kent’s body, he realizes after it’s already left his mouth, and he thinks _I let Jack ruin me again._

Alyosha shrugs, grins at the purpling mark on Kent’s collarbone.

“This is not about Jack,” he says, and threads his fingers through Kent’s hair, tugs his head back gently until he can get his mouth on Kent’s neck again, warm and wet enough to make Kent shiver.)

Kent turns his phone off and rolls over, regards Alyosha’s sleeping face—the pink pout of his lips, the slight furrow of his brow as a dream passes through. He keeps one hand shoved up under his pillow, the other thrown over Kent’s hip.

When he blinks his eyes open, they’re sleepy, warm as always, a deep, rich brown.

He says something in Russian, smiles, says, “Kenny.”

Kent chooses to interpret it as _kiss me._

…

There’s a new box in Kent’s closet: “Misc. Holiday.”

In it, a hotel pen from Kent’s first road trip rookie year; Alyosha’s crumpled bow tie from the wedding; a nondescript napkin from the diner the next day.

A picture of the two of them and the Stanley Cup, 2010, when Kent’s hair was longer and his smile dimmer.

A plane ticket, Providence to Las Vegas, for one Alexei Mashkov.

…

In the story of Kent’s life, he just might get his happy ending.

**Author's Note:**

> aka why do I hurt the characters I love?
> 
> Title from Lorde's 400 Lux. Also consider: we might be hollow, but we're brave.
> 
> Comments are love, don't hesitate to let me know if I should tag anything else.


End file.
